


The Queen of the Night Lands

by WaitingForTheMoon2



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 08:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18961489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingForTheMoon2/pseuds/WaitingForTheMoon2
Summary: North of the Wall, Jon Snow is a broken man. After abandoning his post at Castle Black to join the Freefolk Jon remains tormented by the murder of Daenerys Targaryen at his own hand.Ten years after the Throne melted beneath Drogon's flames, a clan of Freefolk led by a woman who bears striking resemblance to Daenerys happens upon Jon's clan. A woman who styles herself Queen of the Nightlands. And at her side, a son whose black curls and Stark features haunt Jon.





	1. Queen of the Night Lands

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I think I'm in the same boat as a lot of fic writers. Season 8 was a mess even if it ended how George wanted. "It's not the destination, it's the journey," comes to mind when I think of it. It was rushed, contrived, and failed to craft a coherent story using any literary devices. 
> 
> I wanted to explore Jon and Dany's relationship post-finale using that "ask me in 10 years," line from Tyrion. I also want to work back in the magic and fantasy elements that the show fumbled so terribly. 
> 
> There are a lot of questions that are going to be raised after this first chapter. The next chapter will do some time hopping, going back to just after Drogon took off with Dany. 
> 
> I really apologize for not updating my other fics-- those updates will come in time. I particularly want to spend time with my book!Euron fic after the show turned him into a horny pirate.

**Prologue**  
  
Broken Things

The wind bit against Jon relentlessly. Unceasingly. Eternally.  _ It’s what I deserve,  _ he thought. Tyrion had told him the Wall was a place for bastards, cripples, and broken things. And although Jon did not protest his sentence, the pull of death felt more powerful by the day. So he ranged beyond the Wall with the Freefolk, hoping to find purpose somewhere within the mire of pain. Instead, his longing for the oblivion that lay beyond life only grew stronger. 

Jon woke one morning with his face buried into the silver-white fur of Ghost but could think of only the silver-white hair of Daenerys Targaryen. The woman he loved. The woman he had slain. He swallowed the acrid tang in his mouth and rose from his encampment barely more than a specter. The clan of Freefolk he had led beyond the Wall a fortnight ago was already busying themselves around camp: skinning, tanning, chopping, stoking… Jon watched as children chased each other, brandishing stick and bone as though they were live steel, and fought over who got to play King Beyond the Wall this time. The word filled Jon with sorrow.  _ King.  _ The Freefolk called him King despite his insistence he was nothing of the sort. 

_ Queenslayer. Kinslayer. Pawn. But I am no King,  _ he thought. And now that the dust began to settle, he could see things for what they were. He had been a pawn in the Great Game. If only he could have seen it, he could have saved her. Saved their love before his own name was used as a means to isolate him from the woman he loved. All those he trusted had outmaneuvered him. Sansa had been named Queen in the North. Tyrion named Hand of the King and had triumphantly planted his own mercenary at the seat of the second most powerful House in Westeros-- Highgarden. Even Davos put forth no protest when Jon was sentenced at Grey Worm’s behest. Perhaps most bitter of all, not even the name that had sent it all tumbling down meant anything in the end. Only a dagger in the heart of the woman he loved. For certain he would have turned the throne down, but the agonizing pain of it being used as a pawn ceased to subside. And so he sailed north, into the gray, into nothingness.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

**Ten Years Later…**

**“The Freedom to make my own mistakes…”**  
“Daughter of death, slayer of lies, bride of fire…”  
“Yer jalan atthirari anni…”

_ His snout was pressed to the cold ground in pursuit of an undeniable scent: flesh. Living, breathing flesh. He had been stalking it for near an hour along the Milkwater. The river was long thawed and rushing with spring torrents. The prey stopped to inspect its surroundings before dipping its mouth into the stream. It could not see the great beast crouched among a late to melt snow drift. The beast stalked forward, its red eyes steadfast on its game. Finally, it pounced, overwhelming the poor creature in a single leap. His mouth filled with blood.  _

Jon came to at the edge of his clan’s encampment. His eyes transforming from milky white to his Stark gray in a moment. 

“Anything?” Tormund asked. His hand clapping Jon’s shoulder. 

“A doe. Small, but it’s something.” The two men wandered back towards the encampment side by side. 

“I’ll fetch the sled,” Tormund replied, his strides nearly twice as large as Jon’s. Underfoot, sprouts of green grass burgeoned forth from the slumberous ground. It had been a long winter and there were times Jon wished he had walked out from camp like the Northmen of old. A sacrifice in the depths of winter to free those around them from the burden of feeding another mouth. Rather than freeing the Freefolk from the burden of another mouth, he would be freeing them from a walking dead man. But he hadn’t. As long as Ghost was alive, he swore he would live for his wolf. And live they did. Jon began to spend more and more time in his wolf-- and so he became more and more wolflike. More quick to anger. More alert. Hardened and guarded so as to never become a pawn in the Game of men ever again. If Ghost was a beast then so was he. 

“No need, Ghost will bring her back,” Jon replied. And so the two began to prepare a spit for the kill in a silence borne of comfortable comradery. Borne only of knowing another person’s anguish, sorrow, and misery. It’s why Jon liked Tormund so much. He never asked too many questions. And when Tormund took a spear wife into his bed, Jon watched with pride as a number of kissed-by-fire beastlings were born of the union. “Uncle,” the oldest called him. Torvar was full of life as his father, and Jon intended to take him as a squire as soon as he came of age despite his father’s protestations that squires were for “Crows and southern folk.” 

Jon had taken no spear wife despite a number of worthy maids in their camp. As the viridescence began to creep back into the land and the women bathed freely in the hot springs, rather than lusting after them, he found himself thinking only of the curve of Daenerys’ hips and the fullness of her breasts. The sensation of her lips on his. She was his burden to bear for the rest of his days, and he welcomed it. 

Jon and Tormund had finished dressing the doe when Ghost began to sniff the air in interest. 

“What is it, boy?” Jon wiped his bloodied hands on his trousers and bent down to pat the beast. Ghost began to stray eastward, away from both the river and encampment. Tormund and Jon exchanged anxious glances and drew their swords, following the Direwolf cautiously. Others in the clan joined the two as they made their way until a group of two dozen men was assembled. 

“Thenns?” Jon asked, his burr troubled and uneasy. 

“Don’t think so. Those fuckers wouldn’t be this far south yet,” Tormund grunted. Jon looked to Ghost, and felt a strange calm, however. The Direwolf was not seeking a foe, it seemed. He seemed more inquisitive than protective. Ghost led them to the edge of a small wood. In the late afternoon sun, the forest turned black and Jon felt the pull of his wolf. Then came the snap of a twig and the chorus of dozens of bowstrings pulling taught through the trees. Someone was out there. Many someones were out there. Jon’s men knocked their own bows and pulled their weapons from their scabbards. Ghost whimpered and looked up at Jon. 

“What is it, boy?” Jon asked quietly. “Who’s out there?” Ghost fussed again. And then suddenly Jon saw a figure shift through the shadows and he knew what he must do. His eyes rolled back into his head. Now he could see them all. 

_ Dozens of men. Maybe a hundred strong were littered throughout the dark wood. Some had live steel bent into an arakh, some had spears and many had bows. At the center was a small figure he could not clearly define as it peeked from behind a tree. He felt drawn to him. This was what he was sensing. This being.  _

“Drop your weapons,” Jon called to his men. They did as he commanded. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Tormund growled, his sword swill raised to meet a man in combat. 

“Do it,” Jon said, his heart pounding from whatever-- or whomever-- Ghost was sensing. Though he was not sure what drove him to say it, Jon knew these men were no enemy of his. Tormund dropped his weapon with a recalcitrant sigh and looked to Jon for answers. 

Jon drew closer to the copse and heard the screech of tightening bows echo throughout. Jon threw down Longclaw, it dropped to the ground with a thud. 

Then he saw it or sensed it, as he could not be sure there was any more distinction between what he was seeing and what Ghose was feeling. 

A boy emerged from the trees, no more than ten, his face shrouded in shadow. Jon took two steps closer but an arrow loosed and stuck itself in the ground a few inches from where he stood. He understood a warning when he saw one. And then Jon’s heart began to pound in his chest. He looked back to Ghost and then to the boy. 

Jon’s breath caught in his throat as the boy drew closer. His long onyx curls kissed the tips of his fur cloak. Jon shielded his eyes from the late afternoon sun to better see the figure whose silhouette was blackened against it. Ten steps away. Five. Three. Jon’s heart felt like to burst. 

He could see him clearly now.  _ Arya? No,  _ he thought,  _ Arya is Nymeria come again. This is no Nymeria.  _ Jon’s eyes grew wide as the boy’s own eyes emerged from the shadows.  _ Amethyst _ , he thought.  _ His eyes. They are so like hers. It cannot be. You know nothing Jon Snow.  _ And yet… Jon looked from the boy to Ghost who flew across space between them in a few brief bounds. Jon watched in bewilderment as his Direwolf nuzzled the boy’s hand, though the most shocking of all was that the boy hardly flinched as Ghost approached him. 

“Name yourself,” Jon said, his voice cracking. 

“Rhaego,” the boy said, his purple eyes narrowing. “My name is Rhaego.” The boy hesitated, eyeing Jon with an intent well beyond his years. “And this is my mother,” he turned back toward the copse. One by one the hidden bowmen began to emerge, their long oiled braids chiming with every step. But it wasn’t the bowmen that caught Jon’s eye. It was the woman at the center. Her long silver-white hair flashing in the sunlight as though it were aflame. 

“Dany…” The name escaped Jon’s lips like a prayer. 

“Dany?” The boy turned back to Jon. “I know no Dany,” he said. “Her name is Jalan. And she is Queen of the Nightlands.” 


	2. We Can Bring Her Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter time hops to just after the events of 8x06.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll add this chapter to the hundreds of Dany resurrection chapters popping up, but oh well. 
> 
> There are a few revelations about Bran Stark which I struggled with crafting in a coherent believable way. I hope it works for you guys. The show left on a very ambiguous note about whether he was able to manipulate timelines and just about his powers in general. I went ahead and filled in some of those blanks. 
> 
> Next chapter will be back beyond the wall with Jon, Rhaego and "Jalan." Which if you haven't already realized, means moon in Dothraki. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and the lovely feedback :)

**Volantis**

**"For the night is dark and full of terrors..."  
"Why do you think I came all this way?"**

Kinvara lingered next to the roaring brazier as she had for days on end. The Lord had need of her. And in the days since the flames first began showing the visions, the priestess had prayed to the Lord ceaselessly and had been rewarded. Within the flickering flames, she had seen a bloodied dagger lying on a bed of snow, a blue winter rose withered with rot, great wings taking flight among the rubble of the halls the dragon lords built. The Lord was outraged and the flames had licked against the ring of the brazier furiously as Kinvara attended them. Things had begun to spiral. It was all wrong, grievously wrong. The Great Other had been defeated, but there was another now, more cunning and ruthless. One that had gone unseen. One that had hidden within the pages of history. All the while manipulating the players into place. And in the wake of the destruction he foresaw, he feasted upon the carrion that lay scattered among King’s Landing. Pecking and  _ quarking  _ in victory. Kinvara was wrong to think Death was the first and last enemy. For another emerged now. The Three-Eyed Crow. 

In the flames, the Lord showed her a frog boy knelt before a white tree, his arms red and dripping in sacrifice as he fed his own blood to the laughing face. The snows began to recede, letting the wolves descend from their castle. A great tournament, its grounds littered with red dragons on a field of black. A wolf-maid and the dragon prince sharing glances of longing. A baby boy born among tears and smoke in a lonely tower. Kinvara knew what these images meant. They were a declaration of war. The old gods’ last stand against men, the Great Other, the Lord of Light. For thousands of years, the old gods of Westeros had seen their power wane in the wake of men. Jon Snow had been used as a pawn in the Game of both men and gods. Just as Daenerys Targaryen had been. After all, no one had seen the three-eyed Crow’s eyes turn milky white as Daenerys sat atop the walls of King’s Landing on her dragon. 

Somewhere outside the Red Temple, a great beast roared with grief and fury.  _ It is time,  _ she thought. 

The body of Daenerys Targaryen laid before her, her life’s blood drained from her. Her fire extinguished. Kinvara began gently unlacing the intricate plaits until silver-white hair cascaded from the table like the Mother Rhoyne. From the wash basin, she procured a cloth and guided it tenderly over Daenerys wound and body. Then she began to cut. Her incantations rhythmically leading her shears as she drifted between the brazier and Daenerys, the silver hair sizzling as it dropped into the flames. 

“ Zȳhys perzys stepagon. Āeksio Ōño jorepi,” she said softly. Another cut and into the flames. “Se morghūltas lȳs qēlītsos sikagon.” Kinvara laid down her shears and seized the vessel of water. “Hen sȳndrorro, ōños, hen perzys, hen ñuqīr, perzys.” She overturned the water atop Daenerys’ hair, washing it affectionately. “Hen sȳndrorro, ōños, hen ñuqīr, perzys, hen morghot, glaeson.” She placed both hands atop Daenerys’ breasts and said the words again.  _ Please,  _ she begged the Lord.  _ Give her your light once more.  _

And then she saw it. A small mound resting at the base of Daenerys stomach. No larger than a sour plum.  _ A child grows within her,  _ Kinvara’s eyes grew wide, her heart engulfed in sorrow. She slid her hands to Daenerys’ stomach now and said the words for the third time. There she remained, her hands lingering atop Daenerys belly as the room crackled with the Lord’s presence. Kinvara closed her eyes in failure. 

And then…

A gasp of breath. The flicker of amethyst eyes. The rise and fall of a chest inundated with the Lord’s light once more. 

Daenerys Targaryen sat upright, eyes wide with horror. She glanced to Kinvara and endeavored to move but faltered and fell forward into the red priestess. Kinvara wrapped a cloak about the Queen and led her to a chair by the hearth. 

“Where am I?” Dany asked, her body shaking in panic. “What happened?” 

Kinvara smoothed back Dany’s hair, shushing her. “It’s alright, my queen. You are safe. You are in the Red Temple of R’hllor in Volantis. Your enemy cannot hurt you here.” 

“My enemy?” Daenerys glanced down at her breast, letting the cloak fall from her shoulders. She brought a single, trembling hand before her wound and touched it lightly. She gasped and looked to Kinvara for explanations. 

“Yes, your grace. You have but one single enemy. One who has been inhabiting your body like an incubus. The one who destroyed King’s Landing and the one who planted poison in the minds of those you put your trust in.” Kinvara was staring into the flames of the hearth now. Her voice dripping with enmity. Dany looked on with horror.  

“Name him,” Dany said, her voice quavering. 

“Not him.  _ It, _ ” Kinvara spat. “Your enemy is a consciousness thousands upon thousands of years old. One that has been plotting revenge on the kingdom of men. Its day is finally upon us. The seeds that had been planted have been reaped. The three-eyed crow sits atop a kingdom of ash and bone. And he seeks you now. What is the last thing you remember my Queen?” 

“I...” There was a long pause, followed by a long sigh. “Bells,” Daenerys said, gazing into the flames of the hearth. “I had won.” Dany’s brow furrowed in consternation. “We had won. And then… Bells…” Daenerys closed her eyes, her chest rising in falling in steady beats. 

“The three-eyed Crow warged you like a common beast,” Kinvara said, her voice dripping with disgust. “He has done it before to humans, though his power must grow by the day if not even you could fight him off. You are lucky he did not alter your mind. Though I suspect he understands that power now and knew not to linger within you.” Kinvara stood and began collecting bottles and vials from a chest. Small ones, large ones, their glass all a rich amber. She began to busy herself at a mortar and pestle: mixing and grinding and smashing, calmly reciting an incantation in High Valyrian. 

“Who did this to me?” Dany’s voice wavered. “Tyrion?” Kinvara quieted and turned to watch Daenerys-- so pitiful in this moment. So defeated. Her braids were undone, her hair had been shorn. She was no longer a khaleesi. Did Kinvara dare tell her who gave sent her to her grave? 

_ No,  _ she thought.  _ The Lord brought her back to continue his fight. She must know everything.  _ She inhaled deeply. 

“Jon Snow.” As Daenerys clutched the wound her entire body seemed to crumble at the thought the dagger piercing her heart at his hand. Deep, mournful sobs emanated from the mass that used to be Daenerys Targaryen. 

“I…” She looked up, her eyes hollow and ringed with red. “I have no one left,” She sobbed. “Why did you bring me back? I don’t want to live.” Daenerys hung her head, tears tumbling from her face.

Kinvara knelt at Dany’s feet, bringing her face into both palms, the Lord’s fire burning within her eyes. “For your child,” she said resolutely. 

“My…” Daenerys glanced up, her face awash with bewilderment.  

“The gods of old now rule over Westeros. Tyrion Lannister sits as it’s hand. Jon Snow has been banished beyond the Wall.” Kinvara could see Daenerys seethe at this revelation. Another betrayal. “We have but little time. Your child grows stronger by the day and the three-eyed crow will seek him.”

“Drogon…” Dany’s face hardened at the thought of her child in danger. 

“Not Drogon.” Kinvara paused and brought her hand to rest in Dany’s lap. “Another. The one who grows inside you now.” Daenerys breath caught in her throat, as though she knew what revelation would come next. “The child Jon Snow gave you. Another born of ice and fire.” Kinvara studied Daenerys’ face, regarding it closely for any sign but it remained lost in shadow. The heath crackled behind them, bringing forth Daenerys from a labyrinth of thought. 

“I can’t have children,” she said finally almost as if to challenge the priestess.  _ Denial _ , she thought. A gentle smile blossomed across Kinvara’s face. 

“Only death can pay for life, my child. Your son paid the blood price when your dragons were brought into the world, no? However treacherous the trade was. With their death, the seed in your womb has quickened.” 

“Jon… Jon did  _ this  _ to me. And now I carry his child.” The name escaped Dany’s mouth like a hiss as she gestured to the wound beneath her breast.

“Jon acted as pawn, my queen” Kinvara stood once more, returning to her mixture. She uncorked a bottle of Dornish red and added it.  _ All the better to drink it down _ . “The three-eyed crow used you to slaughter the city. Thousands of innocents burned, my queen.” Kinvara bottled the mixture and placed herself at Daenerys’ feet once more. Though this time the queen’s face had gone ashen and pale. 

“I don’t deserve to be here,” Daenerys said shaking her head. “I’m a murderer.” Kinvara swept aside a tear as it rolled down the Queen’s cheek.  

“You do, my queen. The Lord saw fit to bring you back. You have a role to play. You must destroy the three-eyed crow.” 

“How,” Dany inhaled, looking around the room in confusion. “An all seeing being. A being who has a thousand eyes and one. He will know I’m coming.” 

“Ah,” Kinvara lifted the bottle in her hand smiling. “That is why you must drink this, my queen.” Dany eyed the small bottle as it glowed in the firelight. She took it in her trembling hands. 

“What is it?” 

“It is a liquid spell. An ancient one that has long since been forgotten by the prying eyes of the Crow King. One drudged up from the depths of Old Valyria.” Dany turned the bottle in her hands, letting it slide across her palm. “It is said to bring a most painful death to those unworthy and those without Valyrian blood. But you, my queen… You are the blood of the dragon. I believe your blood and bond with your mount will help you survive.”

“And my child?” Dany seemed to grow stronger at the mention of the babe in her belly. 

“He is of Valyrian blood. He will live as you will.” Dany seemed satisfied with the answer and nodded her head, acknowledging Kinvara to continue. 

“And what does the spell do?”

“It is a transformation, my queen. Once you drink this, you will no longer be attached to the name or memories of Daenerys Targaryen. You will be nameless, single soul, but alive and free from the wandering eyes of the Crow King. Once you drink this, it will be as though you have severed the birthing cord once again. He will search and search, but you will have been transformed. Hidden in plain sight.” Kinvara watched Daenerys contemplate it all. 

“My name,” Dany said quietly, “is all that kept me going. Faith in myself. Faith in the power of Daenerys Targaryen.” Kinvara looked upon the silver Queen who seemed so small in this moment. 

“And what of the name of your unborn child, my queen. The Crow King knows you. Knows who to search for. You will never be safe.” Kinvara was pleading now, her voice dripping with desperation. “Drink this, my queen. Let the spell work its magic. Become no one. And then when the Lord sees fit you and your son will come forth from the shadows reborn.” 

Daenerys sat for a moment longer in contemplation, her face indecipherable. Then finally, Kinvara looked upon as Daenerys removed the cork and brought the bottle to her lips.


End file.
